Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Mayhem starts early in the Gupta household - the son has to go to school , and
to do so has to catch the school bus ,and for him to catch the bus the whole
house has to run around. And because we are all running around , often
falling over ourselves ,and of course over each other, tempers are on short
fuse .

Sample a typical morning :

The alarm rings –of course on time. I know it is on time and
so allow myself the luxury of two minutes more of snooze time.. The husband
gets into the act before that. He pokes me, always managing to do so
on the least fleshy part, so that my first word of the day is 'ouch', to
announce," hey! the alarm has rung". Having contributed for the day
he turns on his back and -can you believe it- goes back to sleep. Well,
silently contemplating ways to bump him off one of these days- a fact he kind
of knows- I get out of bed .The fun now starts. I heat the milk and wake up my
son .It starts cordially enough.

Me: baba, good morning. I love you ( I announce this first thing because very
soon things start to slide downhill and I just manage to stop short of
giving him one 'tight one'.
Baba: hhhmmm
Me: baby, wake up. Mom has got your milk. Baby wakes up and smiles at me(my
baby) and stretches his hand for the milk.
Son: mom ,its boiling hot!!
Me: no, its not.
Son: yes, it is
Me: no, its not.

Five precious minutes later I am back with the milk. He
drinks it slowly, nursing it like it is a glass of 'the finest'.
Me: hurry up. You need to go in for your bath.

The boy gets out of bed and shuffles to the wash room . I dash back to the
kitchen to organize his tiffin. The maid has still not made her entry. I debate
mentally if I have time to wake her up .Good sense never prevails so
early and so I get into the act of waking her up. Five more precious minutes go,
but I have woken her up. I hurriedly slap on some eggless mayonnaise onto
sandwich bread, squirt some mustard sauce, arrange tomato slices and the
sandwich is ready. Run back to the children's room. He is leisurely wiping
himself- first one toe, and then the second... My daughter has woken by
now. We exchange terse good mornings. By this time the boy is on the shirt
stage. This is when we discover that a button is missing. I ask him how
it happened.
He : "how do I know?"
Me: "who else will know?" He gives me an injured look. I give
him an angry look. My daughter runs to his cupboard to take out another shirt.
He wears the shirt. The phone rings. The maid runs in with the phone. We know
and he knows that the phone will be for him ( always a classmate asking what work was supposed to be turned in that
day !!) and so he also runs. They collide and the phone falls. Crash !

Now ,we are on to the badges pinning stage.
Me : Hey, the badge pin is broken. How did it happen?
Son : how do I know?
Me : well, who the hell (yes, things are sliding downhill by
now ) is supposed to know-you wear it.
Son : Mom ,if ManMohan Singh never knew about anything happening in his
Government I think I can surely be excused for not
knowing about my broken pin!!

Silence. His sister gives him a thumbs up. They both flounce out of the
room- the days he becomes 'her baby' she drops him to the bus stop. I am relieved,
at least I can have my cuppa in peace. The door bangs- they missed the bus. The
son gives his father a look. Dad
of course melts. The boy goes in the car. The husband has the last word, "
nothing in this house gets done without me".

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Sometimes life throws up real challenges, challenges as in tough decisions to make.You may well ask what the tough part is. Well, just now is one such time. Consider this: there,on my television screen, is NaMo, in Varanasi, performing the Ganga Arti. Being a born again Modi fan, with the evangelist fervor and fanaticism of a born again fan , I am transfixed. I look adoringly at the man of the moment. Perfect body language, relaxed , enjoying the aarti, his fingers drumming in tune with the beat of the aarti. But hey, the image from Varanasi is pushed to one side of the screen and a baby doll with a nasal twang takes center stage. I open my mouth in protest but just then baby doll opens hers.

And herein is the challenge, the tough decision to make - Modi or the CNN IBN panel, presided by err Sagarika Ghosh. I am transfixed equally by Modi and by her. When was the last time I saw such a hairstyle? you want to know what hairstyle ? again a tough one to answer. A flattened bouffant, ending just at the ears, is what it resembles most. The bouffant seemed to have been caught in a flash shower and with no time to dry before curtain call it looks like the head of a distressed chicken.

I shoot a quick glance at Modi ,but he is still sitting quietly, all the action being done by his drumming fingers and so I scoot another look at Ms Ghosh. It is obvious she shares her makeup man with the cast that enacts the Ramlila. The bright red patches on the cheek are a dead give away. This brave act is enough to make the viewer, me, subside into respectful obeisance.And at this moment, when I was just at the point of bowing my head at this version of Sita , from the stage at Ramlila Maidan, juxtaposed with the image of John Travolta ( who had also sported a bouffant in the hit musical, aptly titled Hairspray ) she opens her mouth.

The trilling sound and the accent, betraying that here is someone who has traveled to America and come back with the nasal pipe permanently disjointed reminds me why the moniker baby doll had sprung to mind.
But then, when the words begin sinking in, the manner of speaking became irreverent in front of the language and ummn , the vocabulary.

Sample this :
" The aarti is infact sooo beyooteeeful ( twang twang) , infact the beeyootee of the ghats is just sooo beeyooteeful and infact Modi is now performing the aarti and infact this is such a a beyooteeful sight and infact the aarti being performed by the Prime minister elect is infact full of symbolism; infact he is reaching out to the BJP karyakartas; the moment is sooo full of symbolism; infact something that foreigners come to see, infact a reminder of Indian identity... let's listen to the ( ummn) sound of the conch being blown- it's really rather beeyooteeful- infact let's listen in..."

There is silence while they listen in and I look at Modi. There is a grin on his face. I grin too.

Sahiba
stretched languorously, her muscles rippling in slow motion, in tune with her
arched body. She felt rested and fresh, ready to face a new day.Ramba, hidden in the thick undergrowth, also arched –in
desire. God! She was a tease. He was almost certain that Sahiba knew that he
lusted for her. There was a certain something in her eyes when she looked at
him. The certain something seemed to say,” I know that you want me. Be a man
and confess that you do”. However, coming clean was what Ramba did not want to
do, not right now. He sensed hidden currents and danger around him and his
sixth sense was working overtime these days, telling him to take it slow and “Be
Careful’. So, he remained out of sight and Sahiba, tired of doing calisthenics,
stalked away, fuming.When would he tell her that he loved her?

The
familiar grating sound of an open jeep stopped her in her tracks. Swiftly she
hid in a clump of bamboo trees. She was not prepared to be leered at, at least
not so early in the day. There were days when she allowed them to catch a glimpse of her but today Rambo’s no show had put
her in a peevish mood. The jeep passed by slowly, adhering to the speed limits
of the wildlife park. She caught a clear glimpse of its occupants. A young
girl, glowing with the special radiance that love brings, a man, equally in
love , but watchful .The third - hooded eyes in anexpressionless face . The eyes reminded her
of Nageeni, the resident python of the park, and someone Sahiba preferred to
steer clear of.

Mrinalini
looked sideways at Rajat.HerRajat.He hadn’t spoken since they sat in the jeep
for the morning safari , but that was understandable. One was not supposed to
talk as it would disturb the wildlife . She was glad she had come, though his presence was an unwelcome intrusion.
However, her father had insisted on him
accompanying Mrinalini and Rajat. “The jungle is an unknown territory for you
both and I will feel better if Shekhar is with you. Shekhar, after all, knows
the lay of the land like the back of his hand”, her father had said and that
was that. No one ever argued with her father, not even Lini, the apple of his
eye.

Rajatwasinwardly seething with irritation. His dictatorial father in law to be
did not think he was capable of looking after his darling daughter. Just
because he was not a muscleman like the Schwarzenegger sitting next to him it
did not mean he was incapable of saying boo to a goose. He must tell the old
man about the time he lifted a car to rescue a puppy trapped under its wheel,
earning for himself a grateful lick from the miraculously unhurt puppy and an
even more grateful kiss on the cheek from the owner of the canine, a leggy lass
with long shiny hair and sooty eyelashes in a dimpled face. Thinking of the
kiss immediately put him in an amorous mood and he tugged Lini close to him.

Lini , pretty as a picture and brainy too. She
had topped the Civil Services exam and never failed to remind Rajat that he had
come second. They had become good friends in the training academy at Mussoorie and
by the end of the training were clear in their minds that they wanted to spend
the rest of their lives together. Both sets of parents had given their approval
and the wedding was fixed for the next month . The two families were holidaying
in a famous resort on the outskirts of the national park . Everybody had come
for a morning safari the previous day, but apart from sighting some deer and a
wild tusker they had not seen anything worthwhile. Worthwhile meant spotting a tiger, or two. The parents had refused
to come that day, preferring to relax in the resort instead. Rajat and Lini
wanted another try at spotting the tiger and so here they were.

An hour
later, tigerless and thirsty, Rajat decided it was time to turn back. After all,
it would take another two hours of drive within the forest before they would
reach the exit gate.He looked at Shekhar, his look signaling that
the latter should start the drive back. Shekhar nodded. Fifteen minutes later
the jeep came to a shuddering halt. “What happened”? asked Lini. Without
replying, Shekhar jumped down and opening the bonnet peeped inside. A few
minutes later he walked to Rajat’s side. “The engine has heated up. I need to
put some water in it”.“Where will you
get water from?” asked Rajat. “A river flows through the forest. I have a can
at the back . We can fill that with water and carry it back”. “ We ? isn’t it
unsafe to walk in the forest?”, said Rajat. “ Well, it seems we have no choice.
I refuse to go alone. You will have to come with me. Leaving Lini alone in the
jeep is not a good option and so the best would be if we all go . ’

Shekhar
filled the can with water from the river and straightened up. Suddenly his body
stiffened. “ Crocs” ,he whispered. Rajat and Lini looked at the flowing water.
“ Where?” asked Rajat. Shekhar motioned for them to come closer. He put his hand on
Rajat’s shoulders and said ,”there”. The next minute a scream rang out in the
forest. Shekhar was pushing Rajat towards the water. Lini could see the
crocodile, perhaps scenting blood, at the shore.

Sahiba
looked at the scene unfolding. This was so not fair. For a brute with hooded eyes to decimate and destroy young
love, and that too in front of her eyes!She could not allow this! With a nimble leap Sahiba landed at Shekhar’s
throat. Shekhar only had time to see yellow and black stripes before sharp
claws sank into his throat.

Lini
caught hold of Rajat’s hand and both ran, without stopping, till they reached
the jeep. Rajat turned the key and the jeep sprang to life. The two looked at
each other . No words were necessary. Shekhar had obviously feigned the engine
trouble. Equally obviously he had wanted Rajat out of the way. And paid the
price forhis jealousy.

Ramba
looked at Sahiba. How magnificent she looked – Tigress of the forest and of his
heart. With a mellow roar he confessed his love to her. Sahiba stretched- in
pleasure.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

For all the years of arrogance, for all the scams engineered under your government, for forcing an unwilling son on an unaccepting Junta, for not understanding the hopes and aspirations of millions of us- for all this and more - this one is for you.

Monday, May 12, 2014

It has been a hectic
month. Tons of classes, a lot of socialising and loads of ( as the wife of
the husbands best friend would put it) 'guesting'. Almost all of the
above has been very pleasant but left me looking ( and feeling) distinctly
frazzled and frayed round the edges. The husband and the son ,of course, find nothing amiss. Their logic
being that maybe I was born frazzled and frayed ;with 'arched eyebrows'; and
a perpetual scornful look and....( here I either tune off or flare
up).The daughtersays nothing but I see her looking at me once or twice.
It is evening. She comes to me and hands me her ipod. "Mum, why don't you
take a walk on the terrace and listen to SOME music?" I am on the point of rattling
off allllll the things still left to be done but something stops
me. I smile and say," yes".
I am going up to the terrace after many days- maybe more than a month. The
first thing I see makes me stop in my tracks . I am overjoyed. My champa plant
( which I had planted 3 years back ) has
borne flowers. The ivory white petals , with delicate yellow in the middle,
have brought to my roof both fragrance and light. I stop to savor
their beauty and am tempted to count the flowers but the superstitious
part of me urges me to move on . I now check on the bougainvilleas and
the hibiscus ( and also on the cycas). Making a mental note to plant spinach in
an empty tray like pot, I switch on the
ipod.

Hauntingly familiar music fills the silence of the evening,
followed by equally haunting lyrics. I fall in love with Gulzar again ( after
Aandhi, after his song ' dil toh baccha hai ji , after Maachis
.... );with the Rajesh Khanna of 'Khamoshi'; with the music of Hemant da;
with the beauty, pathos and inevitability of love
itself. Picture Waheeda Rehman singing this :

The song ends and there is no sound for some time. I almost turn but another
beautiful track stops me .This time it is Manna Dey in Kabulliwallah. The
part of me that prays for a miracle for my country; the part that gets
moist-eyed when the national anthem plays in theatres; the part that gets a
lump in the throat when mom tells her first person account of the freedom
struggle - that part of me loves this song:

( many, many moons ago Ihad the
privilege of hearing Jagjit and Chitra Singh singing this ghazal. There was
deafening silence in the hall , followed by equally deafening applause. )

followed by my anthem- 'The eye of the tiger'

Just a man and his will to survive
So many times, it happens too fast
You trade your passion for glory
Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past
You must fight just to keep them alive ....

Thirty minutes later I go down .It is a different me- not edgy, or snappy, or
dissatisfied. I am feeling humbled, replete, beautiful- everything together.
Difficult to put down- but something
like going to the cliffs of Moher and back. I have just heard some of my
personal favorites (courtesy the daughter )and have realized that there is more
to life than feeling shortchanged. I enter and find the family ready to sit
down for dinner. Something must be showing on my face because the husband and
son give me an interested look. ( I return it). The girl just smiles at me.

I now know why the good lord made 'daughter's day' and not a 'son's day!

Monday, May 5, 2014

In the process of doing some research on Hitler , I also ,but naturally, read up on his
autobiography. On going ( read flipping) through the
book it seemed to me that Mein Kampf is more of an exposition and a justification of Hitler's ideology
and political views and less of an autobiography. But there were two things
which I found striking : firstly, the title ,which translates to 'My Struggle'
,and secondly , an uncanny similarity between Hitler's thoughts and the thought
process of our politicians.

The best thing about the book , for me, is the title. I am
sure if any of us was asked to pen our
thoughts for a book titled 'My Struggle' we would have no problem/s in doing
so. We would never experience logjams such as 'writers block' or paucity
of material . This is not to say that life itself is a struggle -on the
contrary life is joyous; truly a gift to be savored .It is when we come
across some others ( please note the 'some' as opposed to 'all' ) with
whom we do not share the same wavelength, or ,to put it more bluntly, are
on diagonally opposite wavelengths, that the struggle begins. The struggle of
being polite, keeping up appearances, not being rude (because one believes
that life is a karmic cycle) etc . Of course ,there are other
struggles also -struggle for freedom ( Gandhi) ;for independence ( most Asian
women ); against corruption ;against cancer ...the list is endless and that is
why I believe that 'Mein Kampf' is a universally applicable title.

Now, coming to the' similarities' between you know who and
whom. Consider these Hitlerisms :

"If you wish the sympathy of the broad masses, you must tell them the
crudest and most stupid things."
When I look at some of the gems spoken by our politicos it is hard to
ignore the fact that either they are very naive or they believe the junta is
and that is why they spout the absurdities that they do.

Another one - "Life never forgives weaknesses."

Is this why our honorable and' honest 'P.M is perpetually
silent? He does not want to acknowledge any weakness for the fear of not being
forgiven?

He doesn't know that the present has already judged him -as will history
.And that the judgment is not very
forgiving !!

Saturday, May 3, 2014

There are games and games .There are games famous people
play and there are games that we, lesser mortals, play. One such game that we
(people like us and not people like them ) play is the word association game.
You know the one in which somebody tosses a word and the other person,
without missing a beat, says the first thing that comes to mind. I don't know
why, but we always play this game when we are stuck in traffic and since anyone
in Delhi who
steps out between 8.30 in the morning to 7.30 in he evening is karma bound to
be stuck in traffic we play this game pretty often.

Well, here we were, stuck between a 'Mruti' and an alpha
Scorpio, and also with each other, when a voice from the back piped
up with "blue". "Monday mornings”, I replied, and tossed back,”
rat". "He", "She" came simultaneously and without
missing a beat a scuffle ensued. I would (like any 'cool' parent) not have
interfered but the occupants of the 'Mruti' seemed to be in serious danger of
dislocating their neck and so ,to bring normalcy, I said,” fish".
"Bongs", camea very parochial
reply from all the three occupants of the car. The traffic was moving by now
and in the excitement of being in motion the game was abandoned...

The fish : bong analogy came back to haunt me
later in the day. My cook, who is a true blue Bengali -with jet black hair and
flashing eyes and a flaming red hot temper ,came up to me. She looked different
and I gave her a look and then a look over. She looked all happy, in an
excited, anticipatory manner. She smiled and simpered ( at the same time),and
said," "I will be cooking fish for dinner and so need to take the
evening off". I opened my mouth, in indignation, but closed it, in
resignation, looking rather like a goldfish (ouch!) myself. "Which
recipe?”, I asked.

Quarter of an hour later I had a true blue, original recipe
of machar jhol from someone who has left Calcutta
but Calcutta
has not left her. This is the recipe:

Take about 500gms of hilsa or rohu
fish (though between you and me, any will do).

Wash the fish pieces and rub a little turmeric
and salt on the pieces.

Keep for 10 minutes.

Wash again. This will remove the 'fishy' smell
.

Heat a
little oil( mustard, of course) in a non-stick wok or frying pan. Spread
the oil all over the pan . This will prevent the fish from sticking to the
pan.

Wait till the oil is very hot, and fry the fish
pieces on both sides (till they are light brown in colour). Keep the fish
pieces aside.

About Me

I am a firm believer in Krishna's philosophy of Karma- and as a natural corollary to this belief have worked and lived so as to give grief to as few people as possible while enjoying my life , my work and myself.